


Piano

by icarusforgotten



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Moving On, overcoming past emotions, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5629873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusforgotten/pseuds/icarusforgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lambo helps Gokudera rediscover himself with the piano. Gokudera realises that perhaps he doesn’t hate him that much afterall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piano

**Author's Note:**

> joining the fandom 3000 years late with an offering of hayato and his stupid cow

There are times when the rhythm flows through him with such raw desperation that it leaves him breathless with rage.

Gokudera can’t sleep. It’s no different from the previous night, or the one before that. He lays awake, doesn’t stir doesn’t speak. Just waits for the sun to rise. It always seems to be at night that he feels the pinpricks of want in his hands, want for something he can no longer bare to glance at.

It doesn’t help that Bianchi imports one of the finest pianos he’s ever had the misfortune to see.

The nightmares return, culminating as thoughts and transcending to his hands. He grasps at something, anything, just to find release in the tension that possesses his fingers. A gun, a sword. They are not his weapons, and they never will be. It’s not his style. But he gains some reassurance from the thought that these are  _their_  weapons, and it manifest as care.

He knows they care. He sees it in the earnest gaze of his young boss. He always sees it from that stupid baseball-head, and though he refuses to acknowledge it, the fact that Yamamoto is concerned over him takes some of the weight from his breaths.

Everyone seems to notice there is something troubling him. Bianchi, although she wants more than anything to be at his side, to reassure him, she seems to understand that her presence is not something that Gokudera really needs – or wants. He likes to think that she’s learned to no longer take it personally, even though his dislike for her is very personal. 

What surprises him the most is that stupid cow. Without thought or reasons, he waltzes into Gokudera’s space, reckless and invasive, and charges the atmosphere with his loud personality.

Yes, he is a child. Yes, Gokudera knows that he shouldn’t be so hard on him, so –  _expectant_.

But when he sees the kid with every corner he turs, there is rage building within him. Lambo doesn’t really give a damn about others. He looks out for himself, and only in the moments that he is overcome with guilt does he consider to maybe  _perhaps_  think about the possibility of owning up to his stupidity. 

He rarely ever does, and everyone seems to think it is an endearing quality. 

That is why Gokudera feels it unnecessary to give the child anymore slack than he already has. 

Yes, he is a child. But he needs to grow the hell up at some point. 

So when Gokudera sits in his corner, brooding and negligent of the world, he doesn’t hold back anytime the damned little cow butts him in the side with his head, or attacks him playfully with his grenades. He makes sure the child gets what he deserves. 

Yet every single time it seems that the kid takes this as some kind of invitation to bother him some more. It frustrates him beyond belief. 

And for some goddamned reason, because maybe the universe isn’t finished it’s cruel games with him, the tension coursing through his body flares up whenever Lambo is around. 

There is a knock on his door, breaking him from thought.

“What.” The usual aggression in his tone is absent, and he grits his teeth, fists tightening around the sheets of his bed. Somehow he doesn’t have the heart to feel irritated at the prospect of someone disturbing him at this desolate hour.

The door creaks, and it’s the last person he expects to see.

Though give how he’s been approaching Gokudera lately, it’s not really that much of a surprise.

“Hey,” says Lambo. He’s older. Must have slipped into the ten-year-bazooka again.

“You’re not welcome here,” Gokudera growls.

He laughs in response, light and carefree. “Well, and here I thought you could use a distraction, but guess I was wrong.”

“Like hell I’d want anything you can offer, shitty cow.” He dips his head into the gallow of his raised knees. The movement somewhat eases the tension in his shoulders, and pride be damned, he doesn’t care what the useless Bovino sees anyhow.

There’s movement on the bed, the feint creak of shifting weight, and suddenly a tender pressure slides through Gokudera’s hair with heavy assurance. He jerks back, slapping the hand away, but then his wrist is caught in a grip that seems far more relentless than the gaze of the one gripping him.

“Gokudera.” It’s a quiet plead, like a payer. There’s no malice in his voice, and when Gokudera looks upon his face, struck by the filtered light of the moon, he sees the thing he resents most.

Pity.

He struggles, each jab a demand to break free. But the grip on his wrist tightens, and soon his second arm is rendered immobile. The itch to his limbs returns, and he can’t hold back anymore, letting all his frustration seep through his lungs like a monstrous gale wind. He doesn’t realise his throat is raw until his breath runs out, and the room swoons before him.

 

 

 

Gokudera wakes to the soft rhythm of fingers in his hair. He’s slumped onto something warm and solid, and in his hazed comfort it takes him a while to realise that he is leaning against Lambo’s shoulder.

He blinks. He’s sitting at a piano. It’s dark, and the soft blinking of the timer informs him it’s past two in the morning. Lambo must realise he is awake, because as soon as his eyes open, the fingers escape from his hair.

“What’s going on?” His voice is rough, and he needs to clear his throat twice before he dares to speak again.  

“Well,” Lambo drawls, as though they are having an afternoon picnic rather than sitting at a piano in a nearly abandoned mansion in the middle of the night. “I know more about you than you think I do.” He laughs. “At least the me that is with you now. But I wouldn’t quite write off the younger me just yet. He may surprise you too.”

“What the hell are you going on about, you stupid cow!”

“My, my, aren’t we rather feisty for this early in the morning.” His tone is light. It’s always light. He can’t stand it. Wants to wipe it from his throat.

“You have a gift, Gokudera,” he says, and there’s this seriousness emanating from his voice that charges the space between them. The look in his eyes suggests he knows more than he is letting on. 

Gokudera pushes himself away. He doesn’t need this.

It’s bad enough he has reminders every year of his mother failing to show up that one day. Reminders of who she was whenever he sees his own reflection.

Whenever he hears a melody.

And stupid Bianchi just had to buy a fucking piano, like it would really solve anything.

Warm hands grasp his own, and Gokudera freezes. “I know you can feel it, hm?”

What?

“It courses through you. It’s a part of you. So you need to listen to it.”

He’s never told anyone.  _How?_

“It will haunt you until the day you die.” It’s not a question.

He turns then, eyes wide as he stares at Lambo. He’s grinning down at Gokudera, soft and reassuring. The urge in him expands, exploding with a heat of endless frustration. It pricks at his skin, sinking deeper into his muscles, until there is nothing but a slow and steady burn at the core of his hands.

He begins to play.

Not once has his rhythm been interrupted. The years of painful avoidance of the keys has not marred his skill. He plays, shoulders diving him further into the motions of hands racing against ivory and ebony. It’s forceful and unbearable, and just like a storm something within him erupts. A tempest is born, waves of passion riding out his fingers without any delay, crashing like lightning in a dark abyss.

His fingers still. There is moisture on his face. He wipes at his eyes furiously before turning to the side.

Lambo is gone.

In his place, with pink mist still dusting the area, is the baby cow he has come to hate a little bit less with each passing day.

Gokudera scoops Lambo up in his arms. He presses his face to the thick head of hair, muffling the sob that tries so hard to escape his control. And he hides his smile, because finally,  _finally_ , he feels lighter now than he has in many, many years.


End file.
